


in your clothes

by Anna_Blossom



Series: Shipwatch 2017 [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt, F/M, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 06:02:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11548998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Blossom/pseuds/Anna_Blossom
Summary: Widowmaker stands in front of a shop window, staring at the feathered costume on display. There’s an itch at the back of her mind, like there’s something important about it, something she should know.DAY 4 - Clothing/Ability Swap





	in your clothes

Amélie pops her lips, putting down her lipstick. She stares at her reflection, giving her makeup one last look-over, before nodding, satisfied. Morticia Addams is ready. Now where is her Gomez?

“Gérard!” She smoothes down the front of her dress, walking out of the bathroom. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, my darling. Just… oof! One moment!”

“Gérard?” She frowns, eyes narrowing when she sees the Gomez costume abandoned on their bed.

“Aha! Got it!”

Footsteps behind her, and she whirls, arms crossed.

“Gérard, why haven’t you worn your…”

She trails off, staring. There, standing at the entrance to their bedroom, is her husband, wearing a pristine white tutu complete with a ridiculously elaborate feathered headpiece. Her eyes wander downward, past the black boxers showing underneath his three-layered skirt, past the ribbons wrapped around his freshly-shaved legs, down until she reaches the faded gray platform heels on his feet. Then up again.

“Well?” Gérard moves into an atrocious croisé devant, armpit hair showing. She holds in a snort. He shakes his head to the right, chest puffing in pride. “Gorgeous, aren’t I?”

“Gérard—”

“Ah-ah-ah.” He shakes a finger. “No, Amélie. Tonight, you may call me,” he shifts into an equally terrible epaulé, eyelids fluttering dramatically, “Odette!”

A few moments of silence pass between them, before she turns away, covering her mouth with a fist. After a while, she clears her throat and turns to face him, face blank.

“Very well, Odette.” She purses her lips when he grins, finally dropping his ridiculous pose. “Shall we go to the party? I’m sure Morrison would,” she bites her cheek, trying to keep herself from laughing, “love to see your outfit.”

“But of course!”

He puts his arm out, smiling when she takes it. “You look absolutely stunning, my dear.” He brings up her other hand, kisses it. His cheer fades back for a bit, and he smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry about the Gomez costume. I wanted to surprise you.”

“Gérard,” she sighs, cupping his cheek. “You don’t have to worry. It was a pleasant surprise. And we could always be Morticia and Gomez next year. Or if you prefer,” she smirks, “Siegfried and Odette.”

“Mm,” he leans in, kisses her, and when he pulls back, Amélie could see his lips stained a dark red. “I am a happy man as long as you are mine, and I am yours.”

\--

Widowmaker stands in front of a shop window, staring at the feathered costume on display. There’s an itch at the back of her mind, like there’s something important about it, something she should know.

She raises her hand, inches away from touching the glass, before her communicator rings. She drops her hand, reaches into her coat pocket and looks at the message, before she turns and walks away from the costume.

The itch doesn’t leave.

\--

“ _Araña!_ ”

Widowmaker stops and looks over her shoulder, glaring.

“Aw, don’t give me that look.” Sombra grins at her. “How are you feeling today?”

She stares a bit, before turning and walking away.

“That’s cold, _amiga_.” Sombra catches up to her, laughing. “Anyway, there’s a reason why I called out to you.  Wanted to know if you got it yet.”

That gets her a brief pause and a raised brow.

“A present. Left it in your room. You should try it on. Might be a bit,” she cocks her head to the side, thinking of the word, “ _freeing_.”

Widowmaker scoffs, turns. “I’ve no need for your gifts.”

With that, she continues making her way towards her room, ignoring Sombra’s eyes on her back, watching as if she knew something she didn’t.

\--

Her quarters are as dreary as always, containing nothing but the bare minimum. The only thing different is the box on her bed. She eyes it warily, especially when she sees indication of where it came from.

Sombra’s earlier statement echoes in her mind, and she clicks her tongue in annoyance. She shoves the box into a corner and instead makes her way towards the bathroom.

\--

Widowmaker’s neural reconditioning isn’t permanent. It’s something that required renewal; sometimes once every few months, sometimes only a week after the last. It all depended on the stimuli she received, whether or not her previous personality started to show through the cracks.

She’s due for her next session. She could feel it. Annoyance turning into anger, displeasure turning into frustration, even the mild satisfaction of a kill had left a bitter taste in her mouth, one she couldn’t place. Eventually, even boredom starts to turn into curiosity.

There haven’t been any missions for the past three days, so she sits and waits. She takes out Widow’s Kiss, disassembles it, cleans it, assembles it, sets it aside. She goes to the shooting range. Aim, fire, reload; it calms her for a while, the mindlessness of it, but even that gets tedious.

She goes back to her room, agitated, restless with nothing to do. Bored. She lets out a strangled sound of frustration, praying that the next session comes sooner. If this is what it’s like to have emotions, she’d rather not feel at all.

Then she sees it. The box in the corner. Sombra’s present.

Boredom turns to curiosity, an emotion she hasn’t felt in a long while. Even when her former personality starts to shine through, there hasn’t been any opportunity for her to become curious about anything. But now…

She takes the box, looking it over, bringing it to her ear and shaking the contents. She blinks.

Cloth?

She opens it finally, brow creasing at what she finds. She takes it out, shaking it free of dust.

A suit jacket. Black and single-breasted and _familiar_. The next thing she pulls out is a black tie. She holds it between her fingers, limp in her hands. Her brow creases further. A white long-sleeved shirt follows the jacket and tie on the bed. Suit pants. A belt. Black men’s socks with garters.

A rose.

She stills, staring at the flower inside the box.  The itch is back, stronger than ever, and she pulls it out. A silk flower pin. She caresses the frayed petals, marveling at how soft they felt against her fingertips.

Not entirely sure why, she puts on the garments, one by one.

The pants are too baggy around her waist, even with the belt; the shirt too loose around her frame. She puts on the jacket, rolls up the sleeves. The itch spreads, and there’s the phantom feeling of a kiss on her cheek.

Her hands start tying the necktie into a Windsor knot, before they stop, untangle it and start tying it into a bow instead. She doesn’t know why, but it feels right.

She leaves the socks on the bed, a fleeting joke about odor and feet crossing her mind, as well as a man’s laughter.

Then the pin. She takes it, pins it on the right lapel of the jacket. She frowns, takes it off and pins it on the left instead. She still doesn’t know why.

She blinks, brings a hand up to her cheek. She’s… crying? Why?

She rushes to the bathroom, faces the mirror. There are tears running down her face, unstoppable. She wipes them away with the sleeves, but they keep coming. A sob escapes her throat, and she doesn’t know why.

Her knees hit the tile, chest heaving, tears falling, heart breaking into pieces and she doesn’t know, doesn’t _remember_ why _._

A loud wail escapes her mouth, and she’s uncontrollably weeping on her bathroom floor. There’s nothing but grief as she wraps her arms around herself, mouth open as she cries. She doesn’t hear her door being forced open, doesn’t remember being forced onto an operating table, doesn’t see the syringe being forced into her neck. All she remembers is grief, then darkness.

\--

Two days after, she wakes in her room. The doctor is there with a clipboard, asking her a series of questions, just as detached as he was during the first reconditioning.

_What triggered this? Where did you get the clothes? Who gave them to you? Did you recognize the clothes? Why did you put them on? Why are you not answering?_

He leaves after an hour. Widowmaker does not ask him about the clothes, but she later finds out they’ve been burned. She expects to feel nothing. Instead, she feels anger and grief, dulled by the neural reconditioning, but she _feels_ it there.

She finds that the itch at the back of her mind never left.

\--

“Hey, _araña_.”

Widowmaker stops, stares at Sombra over her shoulder, glaring.

“How are you feeling?” The hacker grins at her with a knowing look.

She stares, but this time, she doesn’t turn away. “Perfectly fine.”

Sombra’s grin grows wider. “Excellent.”


End file.
